


The Wicker Throne and the Werewolf King

by ahab2692



Series: Blood in the Water, Fire in the Sky: A Love Story [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Lydia travel to a distant mining outpost in the woods to try and kill the Alpha of the rival pack. Meanwhile, Derek and Chris Argent struggle to ensure the safety of the pack in the aftermath of Stiles' recent loss.</p><p>(Sequel to "Cracks in the Foundations.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wicker Throne and the Werewolf King

Here is the tale of three Welsh hunters and the bet they lost against the forces of nature:

In the times of old, there was a man called Bledri who considered himself one with the forests of his birthplace. His impulsive behavior and obsessive devotion to communing daily with the animals of the woods were seen as peculiar and dangerous by his fellow townsfolk, and he was therefore ostracized by the straight-laced elders of his village.

Bledri took refuge in the hollow of a tree, far from the comfort of a warm bed, far away in the deepest, darkest area of the woodland realm where the nastiest of creatures were said to roam. Having accepted his banishment without incident, he lay for three days in the shelter of that tree, preparing in meditative silence for imminent death.

However, on the third day, a full moon took to light the night sky, a guiding marker for a family of wolves returning from a hunt in a distant land. In a curious act of mercy, the lupine beasts took Bledri in as one of their own, providing him with shelter and teaching him how to hunt rabbits and deer. These, among other skills necessary for survival in the harshness of the winter, saved his life, and feeling indebted to the wolves, Bledri decided to run as one of them, and he was reborn.

It is said that as months became years, and years decades, Bledri himself became an entirely new sort of being. Whispers spread amongst the people of that country of a half-man, half-beast who ran with and commanded the wolves of the woods; this evolved into the legend of the werewolf king.

The tale became lost, and an age passed by, and the town where Bledri was born and raised became a full-fledged city with brick-stone chimneys that spewed forth towers of smoke and ash. Of the many prominent lords and ladies that took residence in this prosperous place, none were as well-known as the Morgan family. The patriarch of this hunter clan had died building the city with his own two hands and had left the bulk of his inheritance to his three adult children: Mabon, Delwyn, and Gwynonwen.

These were spoiled, selfish people who hunted to quench their thirst for blood and cared neither for their fellow man nor the environment which gave boon to the bountiful acres of property they so often took for granted. They were detested by their servants and peers alike.

Now it came to pass that one dark evening, walking together down an unpaved road in the woods, the three siblings came across a tall and hairy man with a crown of human teeth sitting upon his head.

To the Morgans he said, “I am he who is called Bledri, and I have waited many a moon to cross paths with those who have so carelessly defiled this land. Your family is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of wolves, and today, fate has come to collect its debt.”

Mabon, the eldest brother, was an arrogant man, powerful in stature and weak in mind. He drew forth his weapon, boasting, “I shall take his head and hang it on my wall with all the other game I have slain!” 

Yet his sword was not allowed the chance to taste blood, for as Mabon spake his piece, the werewolf king reverted to his true form, towering above the three siblings, and with a single swipe of his deadly claw, he severed the prideful man’s head from his shoulders, splattering blood across the leaf-strewn earth.

Delwyn, the middle child, was a cowardly little thing, and in fear for his life, he pledged his fealty then and there to Bledri and his pack, denouncing his actions as a hunter and the actions of those like him. Instructing him to bare his throat, Bledri leaned in and gave Delwyn the bite, and in the fullness of the moonlight, the man became a beast himself, his body rejecting the customs of civility for the thrill of running with the pack.

However, Gwynonwen, the youngest sibling, was a cunning and intelligent woman. Too wise to vie for a fight, yet too proud to submit and become pack, she appealed to Bledri’s human shortcomings, knowing that no man could resist the allure of her sexual prowess. Baring her breasts in the growing dusk, she said, “Behold, great one! Look upon my form and let thine eyes feast on the wonders of the flesh that you might partake in, should you choose to show me compassion and spare my life.” 

Overcome by lust, Bledri did indeed spare her life and took her for his own mate, and so she became a werewolf queen.

Yet, the wolf within him cried for resolution to the vengeance he had set forth to enact. And so he laced within his seed a secret poison, an anomaly that would forever pass down through Gwynonwen’s bloodline. This genetic mutation would ensure that every female child in the pedigree would carry the dormant curse of the werewolf queen. This child, if exposed thrice to the bite, would take on the characteristics of a savage animal, unrestricted by the moral bindings of human beings. Such a child would be left with the capacity to wreak havoc upon all living things without discrimination or mercy.

And thusly, knowing that joining in congress with the Morgan woman would one day bring hell to the people who had wronged his pack, Bledri howled his victory to the darkness, leaving for the shelter of the mist and the trees to await the fruition of his machinations.

So the story goes...

***

There’s a saying, an old adage, that Sheriff Stilinski had liked to repeat in conversation: wars are are waged between rulers, but paid for with the sweat and blood of their people.

It’s not a particularly original idea, but for whatever reason, it struck a resonant chord within Stiles’ heart upon hearing it, and the idea has remained in the back of his mind ever since.

The idea of werewolves is scary in and of itself, and at least in that respect, he can understand the hunters’ inclination to shoot first and ask questions later. But he’s seen the way the condition manifests itself with his own two eyes, and the simplicity of viewing them as monsters just doesn’t hold up against the evidence. 

“You’ve got to take human nature into account,” he explains to Lydia. “That and animal instinct are what’s going to save us here. It’s a simple matter of pack dynamics: the pack sticks together under the rule of an Alpha, and their Alpha wants to take us out. So if we take out him first-”

“Or her,” Lydia interrupts, feminist habits kicking in instinctually. “It could be a her.”

“Or her,” Stiles agrees. “We take him or her out first, then the pack is left without an Alpha and, by extension, without organization. They’ll have no reason to come after us.”

“That sounds like a real long shot,” Lydia murmurs doubtfully, biting at her fingernails. “Even if you’re right, and they don’t hold a grudge after we take out the Alpha, that still doesn’t explain how the hell we’re supposed to actually _kill_ the Alpha in the first place. We’re just humans. We’re fucking useless in combat.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says dismissively. “We don’t have to be able fight. We just have to be able to get close enough to take get off one good shot.” He sighs shakily, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Just point and shoot. And that’s it. You and I are the only ones who can do this because we aren’t werewolves. Our scent won’t seem suspicious going in, which should work to our advantage if everything goes well. The scout should be able to lead us to their base, or their hideout, or whatever the hell it is. And then...you know...”

Lydia swallows, eyes wide as saucers. “I don’t think I can overstate how risky this plan is, Stiles,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “I know we don’t have a lot of options, but-”

“We don’t have any options,” he interrupts, voice low and gentle. “This is it. This is our only chance. It was bad enough when it was just the other pack, but with the Wakefields coming after us too, there’s just no way. Derek’s doing everything he can to get us ready, but...Lydia, there’s just _no way_ he can fight off both of these problems at once.”

She sucks on the inside of her cheek, still doubtful, but Stiles can see that she knows he’s right. “We’re not going to come out of this alive, are we?” she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. “Probably not.”

She takes a deep breath, squeezing his hand tightly. “Better this than waiting to roll over, I suppose,” she says, grim but determined.

And she’s sold. She’s in.

They have several hours before nightfall, so they deal with the necessary preparations right away. Stiles meets with Scott after he gets home from school and explains the situation while Lydia goes to procure guns and wolfsbane from Allison.

“It’s a really stupid idea, Stiles,” Scott tells him matter-of-factly.

“I know,” Stiles mutters, chewing on his lip anxiously. “But you’re not going to rat me out to Derek, right?”

“I’m not going to rat you out,” Scott agrees, looking older and more tired than Stiles can ever remember seeing him. “I understand why you’re doing it, and to be totally honest, I can’t think of a better plan myself. We’re pretty much screwed regardless, so we might as well go out with a fighting chance.”

Stiles hugs him tight, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head whispering that this might be the last time they see each other. He swallows back the urge to cry, hating how weak and vulnerable he feels. 

“I know you two don’t get along...” he starts, voice unsteady. Scott looks at him sympathetically, patting him on the back in encouragement. “I know you don’t get along,” Stiles restarts, “but could you...could you try to make him understand? For me?”

Scott nods. “Of course. Anything I can do.”

They go down to dinner with Mrs. McCall, and Stiles gets a text from Lydia five minutes later saying Allison will keep quiet until they’re far enough away to avoid being tracked by scent. Stiles texts back _okay_.

He leaves at midnight.

The air is cold, and the chill of the wind cuts deeper than Stiles cares to admit. He’s already beginning to second guess himself, even though he knows there isn’t any other course of action. He hugs Scott goodbye and drives to pick up Lydia at the park.

She, like he, is donned in black, a wool-knit stocking cap smashed down over her ears, fiery red hair trailing out the back in a braided ponytail. She hops into the passenger seat with a nod of greeting.

“You ready, Stilinski?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

It’s easy enough to slip into the Hale house; Derek never bothers to lock the doors. Lydia cringes as their footsteps creak on the hardwood floor. Stiles turns to look at her.

“You sure you can handle him alone?” he asks, gesturing towards the basement stairs.

She smiles tightly, holding up the revolver in her hand. “Just buy me enough time to get him outside, and we’re good.”

He nods, taking a steadying breath. “Alright. Meet you out front in fifteen.”

His heart pounds in his chest as he ascends the rotting staircase. As he reaches the top, he spots a dark mass shifting in the corner of the bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Derek,” he calls out softly. “Derek, it’s me.”

There’s a pause and a muffled scuffling noise, and then, “I know.” Derek emerges from the shadows, stepping forward cautiously, his bright eyes lit with concern. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, reaching out to run his hands down the length of Stiles’ arms. It’s all Stiles can do to avoid melting into the touch and retiring to the bedroom right then and there. “Don’t answer that,” Derek amends, wincing at himself. “That was a stupid question.”

Stiles leans forward, burying his face against Derek’s chest. “It’s okay,” he mumbles, annoyed at the wetness he feels stinging at his eyes. “I’m okay. I just wanted...”

Derek puts a hand under his chin, tilting his head up so he can wipe the tears off Stiles’ face. “What?” he asks, and his voice is uncharacteristically open and full of emotion. “What do you want? What do you need?”

“Just you,” Stiles whispers, voice choked. He steps up on his tip-toes to kiss Derek’s cheek, not missing the way the werewolf shivers under the touch. “Just this.” He takes Derek’s hand in his own, holding on tight. “I just wanted to see you.”

_One last time_ , his inner voice supplies, and fuck, his heart really can’t take this.

“I’m here,” Derek says, cradling him close. “I’m here.”

They don’t speak anymore after that, standing in the warmth of each other’s closeness. It’s not a sexual touch, not this time. It’s a sort of intimacy not broached by either of them until now.

They stay that way for some time, and when they break apart, Stiles reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws the piece of paper Meredith Wakefield gave him the other night.

“She gave me her number,” he explains, handing the paper to Derek. “When she broke into my house. She said to give it to you.” He snorts humorlessly. “I remember her saying that you should get in touch with her when you’re ready to surrender."

Stiles doesn’t tell, and Derek doesn’t ask, but somehow Stiles suspects that Derek knows, at least in his gut, that he’s come to say goodbye.

It’s a testament to Derek’s character that he doesn’t try to stop him.

***

“That was longer than fifteen minutes,” Lydia says once he makes his excuses and heads out to his Jeep. She doesn’t sound upset though, just observant.

“We all set?” Stiles asks as he plops down in the driver’s seat, glancing in the rearview mirror to see Lydia holding the scout at gunpoint.

“Let’s go,” she replies easily, pushing the barrel of the revolver into the werewolf’s neck menacingly.

“I’m ready if you two are,” the scout sneers, sprawling out in his chair comfortably.

Stiles turns the key in the ignition, sparing one last, long look at the upstairs window. Derek isn’t there, but Stiles can sense his presence nonetheless. He pulls the Jeep into drive and starts off down the road.

Into the night.

***

Derek goes down into the basement after he hears Stiles pulling away from the driveway. He knows instinctively what awaits him at the bottom of those stairs, but it still feels like a punch to the stomach when he sees the empty rack and the open restraints dangling loosely from the iron grid-work.

There’s still time to pursue. He could still catch up with them if he left right now, could still pick up the scent and follow the trail.

But in a way, this feels inevitable. It makes as much sense as anything can in times like these.

He feels a low moan bubbling up from deep inside his chest, a mournful sound. 

_I should have been there_ , he thinks. _I should have saved his father. Then he wouldn’t have to do this. Then he could have stayed._

It’s not strictly true, but self-deprecation has always been his preferred choice of therapy.

He returns to the foyer and steps out on the porch to gaze off into the darkness of the woods. He wishes things could have been different. He wishes there had been more time; more time to explore this love he’d somehow happened upon in the middle of an otherwise harsh and empty life. And maybe luck will show her face to them once more, allow them to survive this ordeal and come out clean on the other side.

But the odds aren’t in their favor, and Derek realizes with sudden clarity that he will probably never see Stiles again.

So in that moment, for one time only, he allows himself to cry, breaking down into bitter tears as he sinks to his knees in the chill of the wind.

***

It’s a two and a half hour drive to the nearest town, and they stop in at a dump of a motel on the side of the highway, paying up front and registering under false names with the fake IDs they’d scored a year or so ago.

They tie the werewolf up in the bathroom, testing the handcuffs vigorously, and lock him inside to sleep alone.

“Wanna take shifts?” Lydia asks, plopping down on the bed with a yawn.

Stiles nods, taking the gun from her. “Might as well. We could use the sleep. I’ll watch him first.”

She’s asleep in less than ten minutes, and Stiles is left sitting alone with his thoughts with his back against the closet wall, facing the bathroom door with the revolver gripped firmly in his hand, cocked and at the ready. Even with his limited human senses, the pungent scent of the wolfsbane tipped bullets is palpable in the musty air of the enclosed space.

“Hey kid,” the muffled voice calls from inside the bathroom. “Kid, are you listening?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters, blinking rapidly to try and shake off his drowsiness.

“How are you thinking this is going to happen?” the scout taunts, voice low and gravelly. “You think you can just walk into a den of werewolves unnoticed and waltz right up to the Alpha with a gun in hand? Just walk right up and shoot him? You really think it’s going to be that easy?”

Shut _up_ ,” Stiles hisses, temper flaring.

“You really think that foul odor won’t turn any heads?” the scout ignores him, droning on. “I can smell that shit from in here, and I know you can, too. Surely you don’t seriously believe a pack of adult werewolves is going to miss that?”

Stiles doesn’t respond. He hadn’t thought of that.

The scout seems to sense his hesitation, and he chuckles nastily, pausing midway through to cough up mucus in the toilet. “Didn’t think this little plan through all the way, did you?”

“I don’t know what you think annoying me is going to achieve,” Stiles grits out roughly, “but I’d cut it out if I were you.”

He gets a soft, satisfied laugh in response, but at least the guy stops talking.

***

“That stupid son of a bitch,” Jackson snarls, hackles raising. “He’s going to get them both killed!”

“Well there’s nothing we can do about it now, is there?” Derek responds coldly, doing his best to glare Jackson down.

It’s ineffective. The kid’s too hyped up now.

“If he wants to risk his own skin, that’s fine!” Jackson snaps, pacing back and forth across the carpet, chest heaving up and down. “That’s his business. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him drag Lydia into this!”

“Oh, so _now_ you care about her?” Scott interjects, jumping to Stiles’ defense. “Or are you just itching to play hero to her damsel in distress? Grow up.”

Jackson growls and Danny steps between them, placing a hand on his friend’s chest, keeping him at bay. “I’m sure Stiles has good intentions in mind,” he says with delicate intonation, looking between his two pack-mates nervously, “but I have to side with Jackson on this one. I can’t imagine what Stiles is thinking he’s going to be able to do...”

“Yeah,” Scott spits sarcastically. “ _That’s_ why you’re siding with Jackson, I’m sure.”

Danny’s ears burn red, and Derek growls sharply, causing the three Betas to back down immediately.

“That’s enough,” Derek says, glaring at each of them individually. “We don’t have time for you to behave like children. Whatever issues you have, square them away right fucking now.” He points at Scott. “You. We need to talk.”

They slip off into the kitchen, leaving Jackson and Danny to grumble by themselves. As soon as the door closes behind them, Scott says, “I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is yes. I knew.”

Derek nods, biting hard on his lower lip to try and keep his temper in check. “He told you?” he guesses, and Scott nods curtly.

“I know it’s not the greatest plan in the world, but come on...you have to admit he’s done a pretty good job with everything so far.” He folds his arms across his chest, looking determinedly at a spot on the ground rather than meeting Derek’s eye. “He’s smart. He’ll keep her safe. He’ll keep himself safe.”

“This isn’t...” Derek trails off, taking a moment to breathe and calm himself. “This...Scott. Do you understand the situation we’re in _at all_? This isn’t something where you get a do-over. There’s no second chances. If Stiles’ plan - whatever the hell it is - doesn’t succeed, he is going to _die_. Do you realize that? _Lydia_ is going to die. These people will not take pity on them just because they’re children-”

“They’re not children,” Scott interrupts, and now he _does_ look up. “Stiles isn’t a kid. He hasn’t been for a while now. I think you know that.”

Derek’s jaw clenches tight. “He’s been forced to deal with situations no one his age...no one _period_ , for that matter, should have to deal with. That’s true. But he’s still too young for a responsibility like this. He shouldn’t have to kill or be killed. It’s not fair.”

“Fuck fair,” Scott retorts. “There is no fair. I figured that out when you stole my shot at being human again.” He sighs when he sees the flash of anger in Derek’s eyes. “I’m not saying that to start a fight. It’s just an example.” His fingers play along the seam of his jeans, picking at the strings distractedly. “He’s lost everything, Derek,” he whispers so Jackson and Danny can’t hear from the other room. “His mother, his father. I’ve been so preoccupied with Allison and with finding a cure, I haven’t had much time for him. I haven’t been a very good friend. The only thing he has left to hold onto is you.”

“That’s not true,” Derek cuts in, but his voice sounds doubtful even to his own ears. He feels a sick unease in his gut, not liking the idea of Stiles being lonely and in pain and not feeling comfortable enough to seek help.

Scott surprises him by reaching out to touch his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Yes it is,” he says assuredly. “More or less. And you know how he is; there’s no way he can live with himself sitting around uselessly when someone he loves is in danger. He was going to do this no matter what. His dad’s death...” - Scott bites his lip - “...that was just the final push he needed.” He straightens up, looking Derek in the eye defiantly. “So you can be mad at me if you want, but you know damn well that he would have done anything to save you even if I _had_ tried to stop him.” Then, as an afterthought, “And don’t talk about him like he’s already dead! He’s great at figuring shit out. He’s a hell of a lot smarter than me. Don’t you dare give up on him. Because I won’t.”

Derek studies him with narrowed eyes, examines his face as if he’s never quite seen him properly before. “I can’t lose him,” he admits stiffly, not wanting to sound vulnerable.

Hearing the emotion in his voice, Scott’s posture relaxes a bit, his expression changing to one of genuine sympathy. “I know,” he says gently. “Me neither.” He half-steps forward, like maybe he’s going to hug Derek, but then thinks better of it and sways back on his heels. “I misjudged you,” he murmurs. “I was wrong about who you are...and about your intentions. I thought you were just a selfish creep who didn’t care about other people and took what you wanted when you wanted it.” He shuffles awkwardly, glancing at the door to make sure the others aren’t listening. “And I thought you were taking advantage of Stiles. Even though he said that’s not what it was.” His expression grows noticeably softer. “I didn’t know that you’re in love him,” he says, voice gentle. “I thought it was just a sex thing.”

Derek’s gaze turns to stone, and he turns on his heel to walk back into the main room. “Come with me,” he orders shortly. “We’ve got work to do. Call your girlfriend. Tell that snake she calls Dad to get his ass over here.”

***

As it turns out, the pack’s den isn’t actually located in town, but rather at a nearby mining outpost in the mountain forest.

“There isn’t a road through the woods,” the scout informs them smugly. “You’ll have to ditch the car and strap on your hiking boots.”

Lydia goes to the nearest sporting goods store to buy a tent and backpack, along with some other necessary supplies. Stiles stops in at the pharmacy across the street and meets her in the parking lot after he’s done.

“What did you need from there?” Lydia asks curiously as he unlocks the Jeep.

Stiles holds up a small brown bag and wiggles it mischievously. “Back-up plan,” he says in non-explanation, and Lydia raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment further.

The path through the woods is long and narrow, and the leaves crunch beneath their boots as they make their way up the cliffside under the thickening tree branches. The sun burns hot through patches in the canopy even as the wind abuses their uncovered skin. They take turns holding the gun on the scout, never allowing him to stray more than five feet ahead, pressing on cautiously and glancing in suspicion at the shadows of various alcoves, half-expectant of a sudden ambush.

Reaching the base of the great rock formation at the edge of the evergreen tree-line, they find it more difficult than anticipated to proceed with the burden of their gear in tow.

“Let’s lose some of this weight,” Lydia suggests, and Stiles agrees. She empties out everything they can afford to ditch while he keeps an eye on their captive.

“Lewis and Clark, you two are,” the scout mocks. They ignore him.

The face of the cliff looms above them is like a great stone face, gazing westward at the setting sun. A flock of blackbirds take flight from the row of deciduous trees at the bottom of the yawning ravine as the three travelers inch along the grey stone slope. Their toes dig in tight with every step as dirt and gravel break apart from the rock and dissolve beneath their feet. 

Stiles’ stomach drops as he glances down. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, refusing vertigo to take hold of his senses.

There is a small plateau at the top of the winding path, and the three stand panting in the ever-cooling atmosphere, gazing off the precipice at the little outpost down in the valley.

“It’s another two hours to get down there,” the scout breathes out, eyes glowing in the dusk as they move shiftily between Stiles and Lydia. He straightens up abruptly, and Lydia lifts the revolver warily.

“Careful,” she warns, cocking the hammer. “I don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.”

The scout nods grimly, suddenly looking more serious than either of them have seen him before. There’s no smug mirth behind those eyes now. “I think perhaps now would be the proper time to discuss that, actually,” he wheezes out, still breathing heavily from the climb.

“What’s to discuss?” Stiles asks before Lydia can answer. “I already told you: we’ll let you go once you lead us to your pack.”

Their captive barks out a harsh, hacking laugh, lifting his cuffed hands to cover his mouth. He gestures towards the distant lights below them. “And I have,” he says. “So let me go.”

Stiles and Lydia look at each other, silently communicating with their eyes.

The scout shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, staring intently at Stiles. “Look,” he starts cautiously, voice low and deep, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve taken you as far as I can, and now you don’t need me anymore.” He huffs out a nervous chuckle, and Stiles feels a little sick to his stomach. “You would be wrong to think that. I could - I _can_ still be of use to you. What if you get lost once you get down the other side of the cliff? Eh?”

“It’s not that far,” Stiles says softly.

“We can follow the smoke,” Lydia adds, glancing at the wispy black cloud rising from the valley.

“You could use me as a bargaining chip!” the scout insists, a little bit frantically now. “I could take you straight to the Alpha. It would save you a shitload of time, trust me.” 

“That’s not very inconspicuous,” Lydia says, and they can all hear her voice waver, but her hand holds steady as she points the gun.

“And it’s not part of the plan,” Stiles murmurs, looking at his feet. “Besides, you would be useless as a hostage. If you’re unimportant enough to be stuck with the job of spying on our pack for the past month, you’re definitely too low on the totem pole to be worth anything for blackmail.”

The scout’s mouth works silently for a full minute, and Stiles and Lydia say nothing. Then his shoulders slump in defeat and he glares at them with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re not killers,” he says, trying for bravado and failing miserably. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the head, no matter how advantageous it might be. It’s not in your nature.”

Lydia nods. “You’re right about that.”

And then she shoots him in the thigh.

It’s not quite as loud as Stiles had expected, but he still jumps from the shock, clapping a hand over his ear to drown out the residual ringing from the crack of the blast.

The scout squeals in pain, rolling on the ground and clutching his dripping leg, trying to stop the blood flow.

“You bitch!” he shrieks, eyes blazing neon blue, his claws popping out. Stiles can practically feel the rage rolling off of him in thick waves. “You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you! I’ll rip your fucking throat out!”

“Actually, you’d better get going,” Lydia says. Her hands _are_ shaking now, but there’s a steely glint in her eye that sends shivers down Stiles’ spine. “That bullet was laced with wolfsbane. If you want to live, I’d recommend you leave. Now.”

The scout glares daggers at her, spit foaming at the corners of his lips, a snarl bubbling up from his throat as a thick pustule of blood rises from his wound and squirts a small geyser of blood and fluids that splashes against the stone floor. “You hit my femoral artery, you cunt,” he growls venomously. “So don’t get high and mighty with me. Don’t even pretend like you’ve given me a fighting chance. Even without that poison in my bloodstream, I’m still fucked. No way I’m making it down there in time. Not a fucking chance in hell.”

“Only one way to find out,” Stiles says, refusing to look at either of them.

“Don’t think you’re absolved of this,” the scout spits at Lydia, cringing from pain and effort as he staggers to his feet, limping away to the precipice. “Don’t think you’re free of guilt. This is on you. My death is on you.”

And with that, he leans backwards over the edge, plummeting down into the chasm below.

Stiles and Lydia stand rigid in silence for a few full minutes. An owl hoots in the distance, and Stiles blinks as the last ray of sunlight begins to slip behind the horizon.

“Come on,” he mumbles, waving an arm loosely at their supplies. Numbly, Lydia joins him in setting up the tent. 

Darkness falls, and they lie together in the enclosed space as the wind whips the fabric about from the outside. They don’t dare to put on even a lantern, not wanting to attract attention from the valley. Snuggling close for warmth, Lydia whispers, “Did we...did _I_...?"

Stiles reaches around her and squeezes her hand. “We had to do it,” he says firmly. “There wasn’t any other way.”

It still doesn’t make it feel right.

***

“This is Samuel,” Mr. Argent says, indicating the burly, dark-haired man at his right. “And this is Hunter,” he points to the skinny red-haired man at his left.

Derek raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. “A hunter named Hunter? Are you kidding me?”

Hunter shrugs. “Some folks call me Jeff,” he says good-naturedly. “They say it makes things less confusing.”

“Let’s go with that,” Derek mutters, shaking Jeff and Samuel’s hands briefly. “Thank you both for coming. We need all the help we can get.”

“No thanks necessary,” Samuel says. His voice is gruff, but the sentiment seems sincere. “Our people and yours may have some differences, but we sure as hell ain’t no kiddie killers. Ain’t no cop killers neither. We’ve got your back on this thing.”

Derek fishes out the high school yearbook he stole from Scott’s bedroom earlier that day. “These are the ones,” he says, pointing to bookmarked pictures of Scott, Jackson, and Danny. “I don’t think Wakefield is stupid enough to try anything in broad daylight, but then again, I didn’t think she would dare to kill a police officer, much less a police chief, and I was wrong about that. So I need for you to keep an eye on these three at all times. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

“Where are they now?” Jeff asks, studying the pictures intently, committing them to memory.

“At my house,” Mr. Argent says, pacing back and forth in front of the window. “With my wife and daughter. They’re spending the night there, and we’ll escort them to school in the morning.”

Samuel cocks an eyebrow skeptically. “Not exactly inconspicuous, is it?”

“We don’t have the luxury of subtlety right now,” Derek says, a little more roughly than he intended. Taking on a gentler tone, “This woman will stop at nothing to see all of us dead.”

“You don’t need to lecture us about Meredith Wakefield,” Jeff says mildly, expression distant as his mind takes to reminiscing. “I never got to know her that well, but if she’s anything like her Pa...”

Samuel sighs, removing his baseball cap to wipe his sweaty brow. “Son,” he says, looking at Derek seriously, “I’ve tangled with more rotten men and beasts than you’ll likely ever run ‘cross in your lifetime, and Thomas Wakefield could put them all to shame. ‘Psychopath’ don’t even _begin_ to encompass the full staggerin’ spectacle of it all. Just count yourself lucky we’re only dealin’ with his offspring here.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly to fight off a sudden wave of weariness. His stifled yawn does not go unnoticed by Mr. Argent.

“Go to bed, Derek,” he says, and Derek’s surprised by the way it sounds more like a suggestion than an order. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

“They just got here. And we still need to talk about coordinating our plan of attack,” Derek replies stubbornly. “If we can’t find her before the end of the week, then we’re going to have to fight off two threats at the same time, and-”

“We’re all aware,” Mr. Argent insists. “The three of us know her better than you do, and you’ll be of better use to everyone tomorrow if you’re rested up. Go to bed. We’ll catch you up to speed in the morning.”

Derek grunts, giving up.

He trudges up the creaking staircase and drops with a thud onto his sagging mattress. The white expanse of the bedding feels unpleasantly empty without a warm body lying at his side. He can hear the whispers of the men downstairs, certainly well enough to eavesdrop should he feel so inclined. But instead, he tunes out the sound, closing his eyes and focusing his mind on other things.

It’s said that sleep exists partially to aid the brain in solving problems that seem insurmountable during waking hours, but even in slumber, Derek cannot picture anything apart from Stiles’ face.

***

No one spares a second glance at the pair of women standing in the back alleyway of the downtown parkway. No one wants to interfere with such private business.

“These are the targets,” Meredith says, tone clipped and professional, holding out three pictures to the shorter woman. “Don’t be afraid to extend to collateral damage if it helps sell the image, but keep your eye the prize. They must not walk out of there alive. Is that clear?”

The younger woman takes the photos, studying them one by one. She nods curtly, tucking them into the fold of her leather jacket. “Understood. What time?”

“The doors open at 7:00. Maybe wait until noon; strike at lunchtime.”

“Are there any others to worry about?”

“Not that I’m aware of. They should be alone.”

“Will there be resistance?”

Meredith smiles. “Isn’t there always?”

***

The smoke is still rising in the valley when they wake up. Stiles jolts with a start, feeling guilty for drifting off when they were supposed to be taking shifts. He shakes Lydia gently.

“Time to get moving,” he whispers when she comes to.

They choke down a couple of energy bars, still not wanting to light a fire. The tent remains pitched; they’ll leave it behind.

Sitting cross-legged on a boulder as she sips from her canteen, Lydia gives Stiles a once over with her eyes, her expression thoughtful. He notices and frowns quizzically.

“What?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking...”

Stiles stares at her for a moment, then huffs out a soft laugh. “I’m honestly starting to lose track of the number of conversations I’ve had with people who can’t just say what they’re thinking. Spit it out, already!”

Lydia gives a lopsided smile, but it’s quickly replaced with a sad, contemplative gaze. “You’ve changed,” she says simply.

He nods slowly. “Yes...uh, yes? I guess? I mean, we all have.”

“But you’ve changed the most. You’re...more mature.”

He frowns, picking at a spot on his pants. “Is that a compliment? Because you’re not saying it like it is...”

Lydia sets her canteen down and rubs her hands together for warmth, looking around for her gloves. “It’s an observation. _And_ a compliment. But mostly an observation.” She studies his face intently. “We’ve all been through a lot, but you’ve suffered more than the rest of us. And it’s starting to get to you. At first, it was just you taking up the role of...I dunno, ‘pack mother.’ Since no one else was around to take the job. But now...I look in your eyes and I see someone ten, hell _twenty_ years older than the person you were before all of this began.”

“What are you saying?” Stiles’ brow furrows in confusion. “What’s your point?”

She sighs. “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about. You’re more reserved. You’re _somber_ , which is a description I would never in a million years have applied to you just a couple of months ago.”

“My dad’s dead,” he retorts. “He was murdered. In case you forgot.”

Her expression softens. “I know,” she says, standing up to move tentatively closer. “I know that. And I’m not trying to rag on you or anything. I’m just worried. I don’t want you to lose yourself.”

Stiles bites his lip, tension bleeding out of him. “Neither do I,” he admits quietly, and Lydia closes the distance between them to pull him into a hug. 

“Whatever this plan of yours is...” she whispers in his ear, “Whatever you’re thinking of doing...don’t let it destroy the boy we all love. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Overwhelmed with feeling, Stiles turns his head to plant a soft, friendly kiss on Lydia’s cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

She flushes, mouth turning up in a wry grin as she rubs the wetness on her face. “It shouldn’t have been Jackson,” she says, and her tone is teasing, but they can both hear the genuine regret beneath it. “It should have been you. I should have gone for you back when I still had the chance. Before Derek swooped you up and stole you away.”

Stiles smiles, and even though his attraction to Lydia has long since dissipated, he can’t help but feel a little gratified in knowing that his feelings are finally returned.

Closure is good.

***

The boys are at school, under constant watch by Argent and his pals, and Derek takes a solo trip down to the Stilinski house.

There aren’t any police cruisers parked outside anymore, but it’s still a crime scene. The door is blocked off with yellow tape and the lights are all turned off.

It’s a stupid idea; he has no reason to be here. But he feels drawn to return, feels compelled to pay his respects. To enter into these four walls one last time.

The house is silent when Derek slips in through the window. The walls are lined with pictures, memories of a happier time forever preserved in tiny square boxes. Yet the rooms feel eerily cold and empty without the warmth and laughter of its residents to occupy its space.

Unbidden, Derek’s mind wanders back to his first and last dinner with Stiles and the sheriff. He peers through the semi-darkness at the kitchen table, place-mats still laid out against the hardwood. He feels a pang of loss, knowing that he will never again sit in that spot and enjoy a good meal and the company of the man who had given him his blessing despite having misgivings. It’s so fucking unfair.

Stiles’ bedroom, when he enters, is somehow colder than the rest of the house. He moves through it slowly, reverently, as if entering into a sacred place. Most of the kid’s things are still here; he hasn’t bothered to bring any of his belongings to the McCalls’ despite the fact that he’ll never live in this house again.

Derek goes to the dresser and takes out one of Stiles’ shirts, holding up to his nose, inhaling deeply. He has a brief moment of self-loathing, falling back on his old perception of himself as a stalker, but the feeling is soon replaced by a profound aching in his chest. He drops the shirt back in the drawer, clutching the sides of the dresser for support. 

He’s not sure that his heart can take this.

Returning downstairs, he goes into the master bedroom and pushes past the spiderweb of yellow tape to walk inside the bathroom.

He doesn’t know what he expected to see, but the staggering absence of blood somehow makes the whole thing a little creepier. If he didn’t know otherwise, it would look like nothing had ever happened here. The walls are spotless, the tub is white and dry. And that strikes Derek as decidedly wrong.

The crumbled piece of paper with Meredith Wakefield’s phone number on it feels like a dead weight in his pocket. Every fiber of his being is attuned to it, despite the attempts of his brain to ignore its presence.

_Don’t go there_ , his mind warns. _Don’t let yourself think that way._

__

_But what other choice is there?_ another voice inside him pipes up. _How else can you ensure the safety of your pack?_

_Any other way_ , the first voice responds firmly. _Any way but that._

Derek wants to believe he has a choice. But when his phone buzzes in his other pocket, and he pulls it out to read Mr. Argent’s message with widening eyes, he’s not so sure that’s true anymore.

***

“Do you trust me?” Stiles whispers, taking Lydia’s hand in his own as they face the gate together.

She nods, jaw trembling slightly. “Yes.”

“Good. Whatever you might hear in there, just do what we discussed and know that anything I do is part of the plan. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath. “Okay then. Showtime.”

They push the gate open with a resounding creak.

It’s like stepping into a nest of vipers. The tension in the air sizzles as the people inside take notice of the intruders. The machinery clamors on, pistoning and chugging along in the black soil, pumping and drilling into the ground for wealth and minerals. A pair of chickens run across a muddy puddle near the silo at the center of the outpost, dirt and grime caking the creases of their eyelids, wings fluttering to rid their feathers of the dripping filth.

A rickety cart screeches along a steel track, carrying brittle mounds of iron-ore as built, sweaty miners with bright orange hardhats push it forward into the yawning mouth of the mine, veins bulging green and hot as their muscles strain from exertion. Giant fan blades whir in their brick domes, cutting wisps of cool air through the billowing smog that gushes forth from the makeshift chimneys carved into the side of the mountain.

A long plastic table is set up near a gazebo, and a small group of red-faced men with ash-covered faces stand around it in a semicircle, looking musingly at crinkled blueprint stretched across its surface.

Stepping further and further into the confines of the gated community, Stiles grips Lydia’s hand tighter, his cheeks beginning to flush with anxiety. 

A few women sitting together with toolboxes on the steps of the gazebo are the first to see them, nudging each other roughly and glaring suspiciously in their direction. Stiles sees the neon flash of their eyes, and his chest twinges painfully. He wonders suddenly if they can smell the wolfsbane in the loaded gun at Lydia’s side. Probably not, over the stench of the sulfuric gases leaking from the holes in the earth.

Lydia’s hand twitches against his, and following the direction of her gaze, he can see that the men at the plastic table are looking at them now as well.

“It’s okay,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, hoping against hope that no one’s extrasensory hearing picks him up. “Just stay calm. It’s okay.”

The man at the head of the table, a scrawny guy with a scraggy brown beard and soot-streaked cheeks looks meaningfully at his companions and whistles across the courtyard to a couple of beefy workers in white t-shirts.

“Stiles...” Lydia hisses, her free hand creeping towards her belt, fingers brushing the revolver in its holster.

“No,” he says, voice cracking almost imperceptibly. “Like we said. Just...just don’t move...”

The two men are moving towards them now, pace quickening. Everyone in the courtyard is staring at Stiles and Lydia now.

“ _Stiles_...” Lydia says weakly.

He squeezes her hand, then releases it. “Trust me,” he says softly as the two men stride up to them, grinning menacingly.

Stiles sees the flash in their eyes and, like a jolt to his system, it hits him in full force: they’re all werewolves. They’re _all_ werewolves. Everyone here.

“I think maybe you two need to come with us,” the taller of the two men sneers, callused hand coming down to grip Stiles’ collarbone roughly.

“Oh, yes.” His partner reaches down to gingerly remove Lydia’s gun from her possession, lifting it to his nose and sniffing it with a distasteful expression. “Yes, I think the Alpha would be very interested in meeting you two.”

Stiles smiles forcedly. “Take me to your leader,” he jokes.

Nobody smiles back.

***

Derek doesn’t think he breathes until he arrives on the scene. 

Virtually the entire police force is out in the parking lot, half of them setting up tape and cones and trying to keep panicked parents from bum-rushing the school, the other other half shouting frustratedly at each other into walkie-talkies and trying to make sense of the mess.

Mr. Argent calls from over on the grass behind the picket line, and Derek hurries over, glancing briefly at a man restraining a hysterical woman trying to run towards an ambulance as it pulls away down the street. Mrs. Argent is there too, face tight and pale as she hugs Allison close to her chest, brushing her hair in a repetitive, shell-shocked gesture as the girl cries into her shoulder.

“Talk to me,” Derek interrupts before Mr. Argent can say anything. “Is anyone hurt? Any of us, I mean?”

“Jackson,” he replies, and Derek’s heart seriously comes to a full stop for a moment before the man quickly adds, “He’s not dead. Just hurt.”

Derek allows himself to breathe. “No one else though, right?”

Mr. Argent shakes his head grimly. “Two girls and one boy. No one we know. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That fucking...” Derek folds his hands behind his head, closing his eyes to try and steady himself. His knees are literally weak with rage. “Shooting up a school in broad daylight. Who the hell are these people?”

“There was a reason we got out,” Mrs. Argent says brusquely, staring as a pair of paramedics wheel a body bag out through the front doors on a stretcher. “The Wakefields don’t understand anything except winning. It’s all black and white to them.”

Derek’s ears twitch, picking up the sound of Scott shouting angrily at someone, and without another word to the Argents, he’s off, following the sound. He finds Scott sitting shirtless in the back of an ambulance trying to detach himself from a man trying to stick an IV in his arm.

“For the last time, I _said_ I’m fine!” He slaps the paramedic’s hand away, much to the man’s annoyance.

“Scott!” Derek calls from behind the line, raising his hand.

“Derek?” Scott looks immensely relieved. He hops out of the back of the vehicle, ignoring the protests from within. “Thank God...”

“Tell me what happened right now,” Derek says, pushing through the barrier as Scott motions to the closest officer to let him through.

Scott pulls on his t-shirt with a wince, and Derek sees the still-healing gash in the boy’s side through a newly-formed tear in the fabric. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says bitterly, pulling Derek away from the frantic crowd towards another ambulance at the end of the sidewalk. “That crazy bitch who killed Stiles’ dad sent one of her cronies after us. She pulled a gun on us in the cafeteria during lunch.”

“The shooter,” Derek says impatiently, flashing a look across the parking lot where Mr. Argent is talking on the phone in a voice too low for him to hear. “What happened to the shooter? Do we know him?”

“Her,” Scott corrects. “She’s dead. Mr. Argent’s friends cornered her in the bathroom. She turned the gun on herself and the two of them took off before the cops got here.”

“My fucking arm...” they hear Jackson groan as they approach the ambulance. He’s lying on his back on a stretcher, Danny sitting close by his side. “Shit, it hurts like a motherfucker...”

“You’re going to be alright, kid,” the paramedic tells him distractedly, attaching the IV without resistance. “Just sit tight, and we’ll be on our way in a minute.” He looks at Danny. “You’re going to ride with him?”

Danny nods vigorously. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’ve got to check in with my boss, and then we’ll get going.” He hops down and wipes blood off his gloved hands with his scrubs. He gives Derek and Scott a strange look, but doesn’t say anything, jogging off towards a man with a clipboard talking to a policewoman.

“How are you doing, man?” Scott asks, concerned as he clambers up to get a good look at Jackson’s arm. “Feeling alright?”

“Am I feeling alright?” Jackson groans. “I got fucking shot! Of course I don’t feel alright, you tool...” But he reaches across with his good hand to punch Scott companionably in the forearm, so that’s probably a good sign.

Derek frowns, examining the wound. “This doesn’t look that bad. Did she seriously forget to put wolfsbane in the bullets?”

“Uh...no, actually,” Danny says, looking a bit sheepish. He pulls out a tiny plastic bag of the stuff, and Derek and Scott cringe away instinctively. “Stiles told me how you fixed your arm when Kate shot you. He told me I should keep a little bit on hand at all times in case I ever needed it.”

Derek feels a surge of affection for Stiles, but promptly pushes it down. “Good thinking, Danny,” he says, patting the younger boy on the back. Danny smiles at him gratefully, then frowns, worried, when Jackson makes a soft choking sound.

“You okay?” he asks, bending over his best friend, stroking his shoulder soothingly.

“She killed Chloe,” Jackson says, voice broken and strained. “She sat behind me in Chemistry. I remember her asking for a pencil a few weeks ago. I said I didn’t have one.”

“It’s okay, Jackson,” Danny interrupts, swallowing back tears of his own. “Just try and rest. We’re going to take you home soon.”

“I was lying,” Jackson whispers, eyes shining wet. “I should have given her one.”

“Shush,” Scott cuts in, ruffling Jackson’s hair in a surprising gesture of affection. “You didn’t do this. Don’t blame yourself for it.”

“Alright, guys,” the paramedic announces, hopping back inside, “We’re good to go.” Looking at Jackson, he says, “We’ve called your parents and they’re going to meet you at the hospital. Okay, buddy?”

Jackson nods, gripping for Danny’s arm. “Can he ride with me?” he asks. “Please?”

“Sure. But the rest of you need to clear out.”

Derek and Scott step out and cover their ears as the ambulance flips its sirens on and speeds off down the road.

“This has to end now,” Scott says firmly, turning to face Derek head on. “I don’t care what we have to do. It just needs to get done. No more waiting around to get killed.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing in exhaustion. “I know.”

“Jackson’s parents are going to want to keep him home tonight. My mom probably will too, once she finds out about this.” Scott rubs his face, breathing shallowly. “At least it will distract her from freaking out about Stiles disappearing.” He looks at Derek seriously. “Not to sound like I’m giving orders, but you need to come up with a plan. Fast.”

Derek nods. “I know,” he repeats. “I’m working on it.”

Scott nods back, then trudges off towards the Argents. 

The paper in Derek’s pocket feels heavier than ever.

***

They take them down into the mines, covering their heads with brown woolen sacks, dragging them along roughly through the damp, moist passageway into the ground.

Stiles’ ankles crack up against the cobblestone wall as his captor pulls him down the corridor. He can hear the steady drip of water from the mountain river above as it splashes down into the dark caverns.

The silence in the bowels of the earth is eerie; the sound of their shoes slapping against the wet stone and dirt echoes like the unrhythmic beating of snare drums.

They stop for a moment, and Stiles can hear his guard fumbling around in his pocket for a key, and then the creaking of a massive door resounds through the enclosed space before he’s shoved roughly into a room and the door slammed behind him.

The bag is lifted, and Stiles blinks rapidly, eyesight adjusting to the soft glow of the torch-lit chamber. After a few moments, he is able to take in his surroundings properly.

The room is perfectly round, the walls and ceiling layered with granite. The floor is hardwood, smooth and sleek, and it casts a sheen even in the near-darkness. Red tribal patterns are painted into the wood, and Stiles decides to assume for his own comfort that it’s paint instead of blood. The walls are bare aside from the hefty iron torches mounted in formation, flames flickering and popping from the epicenter. Stiles’ captor stands behind him, guarding the exit: a great stone door with a brass handle shaped like the head of a wolf. Glancing around, Stiles realizes that Lydia isn’t in the room with him. The miner pushes him forward, and, stumbling slightly, Stiles turns to face the middle of the room.

At the center is a colossal chair; a wicker throne woven together by rich, sleek pieces of wood hewn from various types of trees. The branches have been sanded down to accommodate occupants, and they weave around one another, entwined like an orgy of serpents. Beneath the seat of the throne is a cylindrical stone pillar with a flat top, fashioned to provide extra support. Looking closer at the fibers that bind the branches, Stiles realizes with a thrill of horror that the chair is held together with strands of human hair.

Lifting his gaze, he finally makes eye contact with the man sitting in the throne.

Even seated, he is tall; he sits erect against the back of the chair. His arms are like tree trunks, thick and muscled and painted dark with soot. His skin is bare, apart the cloth tied around his groin and the sandals wrapped around his dirty feet; like some sort of crazed tribal king, he is near-naked. His earth-worn skin is alive, tanned brown from the sun and writhing with hot-blooded energy. Stiles can feel the heat rolling off of him in thick, noxious waves.

His face is concealed by a great mask; a wolf’s mask, fashioned from limestone and painted black with tar, given texture with strands of hair and powered bark dust. The eye holes gape, and Stiles cannot see the eyes behind them, wide as they are.

He can, however, hear the steady breathing emanating through the snarling snout of the mask. Shivering in the cold, he imagines he can feel the warmth of that breath tickling at his skin.

The Alpha rises, and Stiles notices that though his body remains resolutely in the form of a human, his hands are transformed; they are the hands of a wolf, large and black, with thick fur and razor sharp claws. Stiles swallows, a rush of fear rolling through him.

Standing at full height, the Alpha chuckles, a dark, strangely melodic sound.

“Welcome, Stiles Stilinski,” he says, spreading his arms in a mockery of invitation. “You and I have much to discuss.”

***

Derek doesn’t feel like making rounds tonight. He can think of nothing he’d rather do less. 

But’s he’s the Alpha of his pack. It’s his responsibility. He owes these kids, and they trust him.

He stops by the McCalls’ house, creeping up the side to listen to the quiet conversation between Scott and his mother.

“I don’t know what’s happening to this town,” Mrs. McCall is muttering, sitting next to Scott on his bed, holding his hand close to her heart, rubbing it in that sort of gentle, soothing way that only a mother can. “This used to be such a nice place. And now we have these murders, and the poor sheriff. And Stiles is missing. God knows what could have happened to him...” She sighs, and Derek feels a wave of sadness at the sound. He recognizes that world-weariness, that feeling of hopelessness and despair. He knows it far too well.

“Stiles will turn up, Mom,” Scott mumbles, staring at his lap. “He’s smart. He wouldn’t just wander off.”

“I know, sweetie. But...if...” She trails off, and Scott looks up at her, eyes shining. She hugs him close, rubbing circles on his back. “I was thinking maybe we could move,” she whispers. “Get away from the bad memories.”

Scott doesn’t answer for a while, and Derek wonders momentarily if he’s actually considering it, but then, “It would never work. You can’t outrun the bad stuff, no matter how far you go. It always finds you.”

Mrs. McCall bites her lip, tears starting to flow freely down her cheeks.

Derek’s heard enough.

He stops by the Argents’ next. Allison is asleep on the couch, curled up with a pillow and blanket. Her parents are arguing in low voices in the kitchen.

“We have to think about ourselves for once, Chris,” Mrs. Argent says angrily. “Sometimes you have to let others fend for themselves. You can’t save the world.”

“Don’t get melodramatic,” Mr. Argent snaps, draining what’s left of a bottle of beer. “This isn’t about saving the world, or even saving those kids. Meredith will never stop looking for us if we run. It’s better to stand with someone, even if you aren’t sure you trust them.”

“We can try to run!” his wife cries, then lowers her voice when she remembers Allison is sleeping in the next room. Whispering now, “If we leave tonight, if we leave _now_ , without bothering to pack our things, we might have a shot of disappearing before she can track us down. We have to _try_ at least. For Allison’s sake.”

“I’m not having this discussion,” Mr. Argent says, his tone decidedly final. “This isn’t happening. You need to learn when to accept your lot in life, Victoria.”

Derek backs away from the window, shoving his hands in his pockets as he strolls off down the street.

Danny isn’t at his house, but Derek’s not worried. He knows where to look.

When he clambers up to Jackson’s window, the two teenagers are sitting on the edge of the bed, talking quietly and hunched together. 

“It’s the waiting I can’t stand,” Jackson is saying, hands clasped together in his lap, shoulders shivering. His wound looks to Derek to be completely healed. “It’s the not knowing, you know? I mean, I know I’m going to die. I _know_ that. I just can’t handle sitting around and waiting for it to come. I just want it to be fucking over with.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Danny reprimands, rubbing his best friend’s shoulders. “Don’t you say that. You’re not going to die. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to be okay.”

Jackson snorts mirthlessly. “Yeah right. I’m shit at fighting. Hell, you’re a lot better than me, and you got turned _after_ I did.”

“You’re not a shit fighter. Don’t undersell yourself.”

“Even if I wasn’t, I’m still a coward. When I saw her pull that gun today, I just froze up. I should have jumped for her or something. I should have fought like you did. Like McCall did. Instead of trying to run and hide like a pussy.” He sighs, ruffling his hair in frustration. “I’m the weakest one in the pack, and we all know it. You’re better, obviously. Fucking McCall’s better. Derek, of course. Hell, even Stilinski. He’s probably braver than ten of me.”

Danny scoots closer, putting a hand on Jackson’s knee. “What Scott and I did was stupid, and we got lucky. What you did was natural. You were in a life or death situation, and your body reacted normally and told you to run.” Danny smiles at him, nudging him with his elbow. “Besides, you _did_ come back, remember? You took a bullet fighting for us.”

Jackson gives him a look like he’s being intentionally thick. “I took a bullet for _you_. Not for us. Not for the pack. It was purely selfish.”

Danny’s face goes through a range of emotions, then slides into a blank mask. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Jackson looks down at his lap, flushing red. “I couldn’t lose you,” he whispers. “I can’t...” - he bites down hard on his lower lip - “I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re the most important person in my life.”

Derek knows immediately what Danny is going to; probably before Danny does. The boy leans in quickly, pressing his mouth up against Jackson’s.

Jackson draws in a sharp, surprised breath and jerks away, and Danny’s face turns bright red as he backs off, looking ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll go.”

But Jackson pulls him back down, and this time, he’s the one to initiate the kiss.

Danny freezes, just for a moment, then melts into it, wrapping his arms around Jackson’s back, pulling him closer.

Derek is surprised by how relieved he is. He’d been hoping that the tension between those two would work itself out, but he hadn’t hoped for this. He allows himself to feel a surge of affection for his pack-mates before carefully, quietly climbing down from the windowsill. It’s not his place to listen in on whatever may happen next.

He trots down the street and disappears into the undergrowth at the end of the lane. The night is quiet. The police force has called a temporary curfew in light of the sheriff’s murder and the school shooting, so he can’t afford to be caught out late.

He goes into a quiet clearing in the depths of the forest. A favorite spot of his.

The nightingales chirp in the canopy, whistling out a sweet, mournful tune.

Derek reaches into his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper. 

_Why should the others have to suffer?_ he thinks. _Why should I put their lives at risk to protect my own? It’s not like I’ve got anything left here, anyway._

__

_Stiles,_ a voice in the back of his head protests, but Derek can’t allow himself to think that way. He can’t be selfish; this isn’t about his own needs.

_Doing this could save Stiles, too._  

He takes an unsteady breath and types the number into his phone. It was always going to come down to this. He just didn’t want to admit it.

His thumb hovers over the Enter button, still unsure.

A beast howls somewhere in the distance. Somewhere out there in the dark.

***

Lydia blinks as the room around her comes into focus. She’s alone. Stiles is nowhere to be seen. The chamber is empty aside from a little rocking chair and a pair of dusty bookshelves packed together in the corner. 

She tries the door to no avail, then wanders over to the shelves, fingers drifting aimlessly over the books’ spines. 

Nothing to do but wait.

She hopes Stiles knows what he’s doing. His plan sounded pretty fucking insane when he’d explained it back at the campsite, but considering the present situation, she’s willing to hold out hope for whatever she can.

Her fingers settle on a particularly old book, much dustier and crinkly than the others. She lifts it out of its place and thumbs through its yellowing pages, looking at the table of contents.

One title catches her eye: “The Legend of the Werewolf King.”

Frowning, intrigued, she sits down in the chair and squints in the torchlight to read the opening sentence:

_“Here is the tale of three Welsh hunters and the bet they lost against the forces of nature...”_

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, heads up, readers: It's become clear to me that there is no way in hell I'm going to be able to finish this little saga the way I want to in just one more installment. So I've decided to expand this into a 7-part series instead of the original 5-part plan. I know exactly where I'm taking the story, and I want to make sure I earn the ending I'm building up to.


End file.
